Here you will find the Poem Meeting of poet Boris Pasternak
The snow will dust the roadway, And load the roofs still more. I'll stretch my legs a little: You're there outside the door. Autumn, not winter coat, Hat-none, galoshes-none. You struggle with excitement Out there all on your own. Far, far into the darkness Fences and trees withdraw. You stand there on the corner, Under the falling snow. The water trickles down from The kerchief that you wear Into your sleeves, while dewdrops Shine sparkling in your hair. And now illumined by A single strand of light Are features, kerchief, figure And coat of autumn cut. There's wet snow on your lashes And in your eyes, distress, And your external image Is all, all of apiece. As if an iron point With truly consummate art, Dipped into antimony, Had scribed you on my heart. Those modest, humble features Are in it now to stay, And if the world's cruel-hearted, That's merely by the way. And therefore it is doubled, All this night in snow; To draw frontiers between us Is more than I can do. But who are we and whence, If, of those years gone by, Scandal alone remains And we have ceased to be.
